4.0 #2
"You're good at that," she said, almost a compliment. She rose from the chaise, robe sliding against her skin, and crossed the room with a kind of practiced ease. "You make people believe."
I threw the drink back, felt it cut down to my chest. "That's the job."
She was close enough now that I could smell her perfume-something expensive, floral with an edge of vanilla. Her hand skimmed over my shoulder, down to the back of my neck. "And what about me?"
"What about you?" I asked flatly, pouring again.
"You don't have anything to say to me after a day like that?" Her voice was teasing, coaxing. She tugged at the tie still dangling around my neck, then let it fall, her fingers brushing my collarbone. "Nothing?"
I didn't answer. I didn't pull away either.
Her robe loosened with a flick of her wrist, silk slipping from her shoulders to reveal skin she knew men usually gasped over. Perfect curves, perfect presentation. A magazine spread come to life. She leaned in, lips grazing my jaw.
"Margot-" I started, but she didn't let me finish.
Her hands were already sliding lower, her mouth warm against my throat, her body pressed into mine like gravity had picked a side.
I let the glass clink back onto the dresser, the bottle beside it. Her fingers brushed my belt. Her breath came shallow.
"Stop thinking," she whispered, lips ghosting my ear. "Just let me take care of you."
So I did. Not because I wanted her. Not because desire burned through me the way it should have. But because release was easier than another argument. Because letting her try was simpler than rejecting her and enduring the fallout.
She dropped to her knees with the grace of someone who thought sex was still a performance, who thought my silence was part of the script. And I stood there, jaw tight, eyes closed, gripping the edge of the dresser hard enough that my knuckles whitened.
It was mechanical. Detached. Her mouth worked, her hands guided, her soft hums filled the silence. But none of it reached me. None of it made me feel anything but heavier.
When it ended, I didn't look down at her. I just reached for the glass, swallowed what was left, and let the burn cover the emptiness.
She rose, adjusting her robe, blue eyes flicking to me like she was searching for approval, for something in my face that might tether her closer.
"Better?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, flat.
And I knew, as her smile faltered, that I'd only complicated the knot between us more. But I didn't care.
I turned for the shower, bottle in hand, steam already filling the room in my head.
The bathroom filled with steam fast, the mirror fogging before I even stepped under. I set the bottle on the marble ledge near the sink, half-empty already, and peeled off my shirt. My skin smelled like her perfume. I hated it.
The water hit hot, needling down my shoulders. I braced my hands against the tile and let it run, scalding enough to feel like punishment. Margot was probably still in the bedroom, robe pulled back together, flipping through another glossy spread like nothing happened.
She wanted more from me than I'd ever give her. I knew it. She probably knew it too, but she played the game because it was easier than admitting what we were-an arrangement wrapped in pretty bows. I wasn't a husband to her. I was a role. A name. A ticket.
I tipped my head back, water washing over my face, and tried not to think about how easy it was to let her do it. About how empty I'd felt after.
The truth was, the only thing that still made me feel anything lately was the burn of a drink or the crack of my father's voice in my ear, reminding me exactly who I was supposed to be.
I shut the water off, grabbed a towel, ran it rough over my hair. My reflection stared back from the mirror, blurred at the edges. Jaw sharp, eyes bloodshot. A face built for photos, a body built for suits. A man who looked like he should have it all together, even when he didn't.
The phone buzzed on the counter. I didn't have to check the screen to know who it was. Only one person called me this late without hesitation. Mom.
"Hi, sweetheart," her voice came warm, careful. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
I wrapped the towel around my waist, leaned against the sink. "No. Just got out of the shower."
"Long day?" she asked.
I let out a humorless laugh. "Aren't they all?"
She chuckled softly, the kind of sound meant to ease me, though it never really did. "I saw the coverage of your committee hearing this morning. You carried yourself well."
"Glad the cameras thought so."
"You don't give yourself enough credit, Brooks."
That was her rhythm-gentle strokes first. Ease me into the conversation, make me believe it was just a mother checking in. But I'd lived in this family too long not to recognize the shift when it came.
"I had lunch with Mrs. O'Connor today," she said casually, like she was mentioning the weather.
Bryan's wife. I straightened, jaw tightening.
"She asked if you'd made up your mind," Mom continued. "Said Bryan's eager for your answer. I told her surely your father had already talked to you about it."
There it was.
"So that's why you called," I said, a dry edge cutting through my voice. "Silly of me to think you just wanted to check in."
Silence, then a sigh. "Don't be cruel. You know I care about you, Brooks. But this is important. Bryan believes in you. Your father and I both believe in you. This could define your career."
"Define it," I repeated, shaking my head. "As if it isn't already defined for me."
"Don't," she said gently. "Don't make it sound like you're trapped. You've worked for this. You've earned this. And I know it's been...difficult lately. Adjusting. But this could be the next step forward. The step that matters."
Her voice softened like she was talking to the boy I used to be, not the man standing half-drunk in a marble bathroom. "You're made for this, Brooks. You always have been. You'll make a difference."
I stared at my reflection-tired eyes, damp hair, the faint flush of alcohol still warming my skin. A man who didn't look like he believed in difference-making anymore.
"I'll consider it," I said finally, voice low. "I'll call Bryan tomorrow with my decision."
She exhaled, relief audible even over the line. "That's all we ask."
We. Always we. Never me.
"I love you," she added, almost as an afterthought.
"I'll talk to you soon," I replied, and hung up before she could say more.
The phone went dark in my hand, and for a long moment the only sound was the steady tick of water dripping from the faucet.
Consider it. That's what I'd told her. What I always told them.
I dried off, pulled on a pair of sweats, and stretched out across the bed. Margot was now downstairs-thank God. I tipped the bottle on the nightstand for one last swallow and let the burn settle me. Sleep came hard, like it had to wrestle me down.
When morning finally clawed its way in, the sunlight felt too sharp through the curtains. My head throbbed, but duty doesn't care about hangovers. I showered again, shaved, suited up, and drove to the office like nothing was wrong. That was the Whitmore way: keep the mask on, keep the hands steady.
But all morning, Bryan's name sat heavy in the back of my mind. His wife. My mother. My father, no doubt pacing somewhere waiting for me to fall in line. They wanted an answer, not excuses.
By late afternoon, the office was quiet. Staff gone for the day, phones silenced, the city outside dimming into that hazy gold that makes Harrisburg look better than it deserves. I closed the blinds halfway, sat at my desk, and finally did what I knew I was always going to do.
I dialed Bryan's number.
He answered on the second ring, voice warm, practiced. "Brooks. I was starting to wonder if you'd gone dark on me."
"Been busy," I said evenly. My hand flexed around the phone. "But I've thought about your proposal."
A beat of silence, like he was leaning in. "And?"
I stared at the empty glass on my desk, the faint sting still in my throat from the morning. "You've got your Vice President."
He let out a low chuckle, pleased. "I knew you wouldn't make me wait long. This is the right move, Brooks. For both of us."
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. Didn't matter now.
"I'll have my team coordinate with yours," I said, my voice clipped, efficient. "We'll talk logistics this week."
"Perfect," Bryan said smoothly. "Welcome to the ticket."
When the call ended, I set the phone down and leaned back in my chair. The blinds cut the sunset into stripes across the room, and for the first time in hours, I let myself exhale.
I'd given them the answer they wanted. And in the quiet after, it felt less like a victory and more like surrender.